


Weird At Last

by ukiyo91



Category: Hockey RPF, Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Alternate Universe - Welcome to Night Vale Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 11:55:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1940088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ukiyo91/pseuds/ukiyo91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sidney, who has proudly lasted several months as a Night Vale Radio Station intern (unpaid), meets newcomer Geno, a graduate student and Scientist, who is researching the large sheet of ice that appeared in their pleasant desert town a few weeks ago. An ordinary day turns extraordinary. And there are spiders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weird At Last

**Author's Note:**

> I felt like trying a crossover, and my love of WTNV and Hockey RPF made this fic so much fun to write. Note that I didn't use any tags, because I think tagging for Night Vale is a bit difficult and ultimately fruitless. But please be warned that this is a place where weird and sometimes disturbing things happen. 
> 
> Thanks to the--northface for her comments!

When Sidney wakes up in the morning, the first thing he does is walk to the calendar hanging crookedly next to his fridge and draw a giant X in the previous day’s slot. It’s not that he’s actually counting down to something--he does it with pride, because it means he’s survived another day as a Night Vale Radio Station intern (unpaid). 

After Dana, Sidney’s the longest running intern currently working (unpaid) at the station and unlike Dana, he’s pretty confident that he’s not a double of himself or wandering lost within a separate dimension. He puts in his seven hours a day, four days a week, and has observed carefully what to do and what not to do. When Cecil asks him to check something out, he knows to bring along his rocksalt gun, a vial of blood, a photograph of a loved one (Taylor, his sister, who’s currently missing and presumed to be apart of Tamika Flynn’s growing child army) and his wits. 

When Sidney’s not an (unpaid) intern, he is the founder of Night Vale’s hockey club. The pristine sheet of ice that appeared next to the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex six weeks ago has never melted, and despite the workout Sidney and his team gives it every Wednesday and Friday evenings, the ice always manages to look untouched the following morning. 

It’s a Tuesday, which, according to the Community Calendar, is feeling a bit ambivalent, so Sidney doesn’t feel guilty about lingering in his apartment a bit, watering his cactus (who thanks him in Finnish--he had to look it up, but Sidney’s actually getting pretty good at standard phrases), and texting a buddy about the pick-up game tomorrow. Seeing as Night Vale is a desert and all, and none of the surrounding towns have their own ice rink, it’s generally just Sidney playing with whoever shows up. 

Nonetheless, he arrives at the Station at half-past nine, greets Cecil, who looks, as-always, fresh and sprightly with an enormous cup of coffee and a face-splitting grin. On Tuesday mornings they meet to go over long-term projects that Sidney’s working on, like covering the (still) on-going mayoral elections. But sometimes there’s a town-wide emergency, in which case Cecil will send Sidney to go investigate while he narrates from the recording booth. Sidney has had to add to his nightly blood-stone circle sacrifice routine (nothing major--mostly he sacrifices small things, like using peanut butter for the next week, which sucks but the point is, you know, that Sid’ll live) in preparation for these kinds of requests. Sometimes it’s an innocent trip to the Sand Wastes to interview the glowing specter that’s taken up residence there, or sometimes it’s off to Old Woman Josie’s house for warm oatmeal raisin cookies and vague and cryptic messages from one of the Erika’s. Sidney knows well enough to know that any of these could prove fatal. 

This morning, Cecil’s in a mood to chat (Sidney isn’t). Carlos (his boyfriend, the Scientist--you know, the one Cecil only mentions every hour or so since the whole ‘lights-above-the-Arby’s’ date-thing?) has gone to pick up some newly-arrived scientists, and isn’t that exciting? Cecil knows Carlos has a lot of important Science stuff to do everyday, but these new additions to his team will really allow him to work a bit less and (hopefully) spend more time with Cecil. Sidney listens, because he knows the deal. You get in with Cecil, the probability of your death drops significantly. Sidney doesn’t want to be another half-distracted, ten-second eulogy recited over the radio (Sid just wants to live long enough to know that Taylor is safe and isn’t near any libraries or barbershops, at least) so he smiles, ignores (like they all do) the hooded figure that passes by the open door of the kitchenette and then turns back to grab a mug of coffee for himself, and listens to Cecil talk. And it’s not like it’s hard, listening to that voice. Before he had applied to be an intern, Sid had spent his evenings with his family listening to Cecil’s voice, half-anxious and half-comforted, like any proper Night Vale citizen. 

Sidney doesn’t like thinking of those days though. The days when his family was whole and together. Before his Mom heard the gentle serenade from the Whispering Forest, or before his Dad left for dinner one night and came back Wrong, and his sister...

So it’s a Tuesday, and Cecil doesn’t have anything too strenuous on the agenda. Sidney’s going to proof some copy for one of the longer reports on spiders, get a sound bite from the Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives in Your Home, and towards the end of the day attend a swearing in ceremony for the new Blood Pact Scouts. Pretty typical, and with lots of time for Sidney to think about how he still isn’t getting paid. 

Around 11am, he makes his way over to his apartment to get the soundbite. The FOWHSLIYH is erudite, as usual, informing Sidney that she took the liberty of organizing his spice rack, and switched two of the bottles (“But I will not tell you which, because I think surprises are good for people. Especially wasabi-cilantro-flavored surprises.”). Sidney figures that’s as good a quote as he’s going to get, and sends it along to Cecil. 

Tuesday’s ambivalence is starting to hit a bit harder, so after a lunchtime slice at Big Rico’s, along with a friendly encounter with a dozen spiders (something to add to his report), Sidney decides to meander over to his sheet of ice. It’s not his usual routine, but the day is scorching, as usual, and suddenly all Sidney wants to do is sit and look at that ice, smooth and clear and something vast and endless, and not think. 

Someone apparently has the same idea. A stranger, tall, very tall, with eyes squinting from too much sunlight and hunched over a legal pad scribbling notes is at the edge of the ice. He looks up as Sidney approaches and Sid’s hit with a wave of thumping anxiety mingled with gleeful terror and what Cecil would describe as “Neat!” He recognizes this feeling from when Earl Harlan took his Scout Troop on a field trip to explore the void when he was 13 and he realized simultaneously that Earl was kind of ruggedly handsome and that he didn’t really want to be a Boy Scout after all (it had taken a series of bloody sacrifices and disappointed looks to get out of that). 

“Hello.” Sidney says cautiously. Because he knows this guy is a stranger. There’s a thing that most Night Vale citizens have that makes them familiar to any other citizen. People from Out of Town are as obvious as though they had a giant red bulls-eye painted on their chest. This guy is in a loose linen button down, with sweat stains already dotting his back and underarms. 

The guy takes one look at Sidney and breaks out into a smile. “Hello!” He says back, and it sounds thickly accented. “Do you know what this is?” He points to the ice, which seems to call to Sidney. If he had his skates with him, he’d be out there right now, gliding across its ever-smooth surface. Instead, Sidney gives the guy a strange look and replies, “It’s ice.” Because, duh. 

The guy shakes his head. “Is not possible to be here. The current temperature is roughly ninety-five degrees and humidity is sixteen percent. There can be no ice here.” As he finishes, the guy crouches down to touch the surface of the ice with his fingers. He looks incredulous when he takes his hand away, beads of cold moisture coating the skin. He has big hands, Sid notices. Huge hands. The guy huffs out a laugh. “It’s impossible, but is here!” 

“It showed up a few months ago,” Sidney supplies, stepping closer to the man. Close enough to see the tell-tale signs of a sunburn happily taking residence across the bridge of his nose and the back of his neck. “We skate there now, every week. Play hockey when we get enough people.” Sidney had only ever watched hockey on TV, when all the channels weren’t playing old reruns of I Love Lucy and The Love Boat or that awful scene with the tunnel from Willy Wonka. He remembers when he had caught an old game, enthralled by the spectacle of the whole thing, the brutality and artistry. It had seemed a very Night Vale-esque sport, with it’s mixture of artistry and grace and violence and bloodshed. He had even stupidly tried to brave the librarians when he was nineteen, feeling cocky enough to arm himself with only a machete and a grenade, in order to see if they had a copy of some sort of history of it. He was unsuccessful (still has the scar across his abdomen to show for it) but figured he’d consult wikipedia (by placing a raw chunk of beef in the mailbox and tying a folded up piece of graph paper with his search subject written in maple syrup, of course). 

Seeing as he’s the only real hockey fan in Night Vale, it’s taken some effort to convince others in the town to use the ice. But once they’d all discovered that in the back of their closets (way back, behind the box that no one should ever open) were a perfectly fitting pair of ice skates that had all seemingly forgotten about, things came together pretty quick. 

The mention of hockey seems to excite the guy. “You are serious? I play hockey all the time back in Russia!” Ah, and Sidney can now recall that accent. The Apache Tracker (after he had actually transformed into an Apache Indian who could only speak Russian) had sounded kind of like that, and Sidney is now even more curious. 

“You’re from Russia? What are you doing all the way here?” He asks. 

“I am graduate student, study with Carlos, er Doctor Ramirez. Got here just this morning, and was told to go out and find strange things. Carlos says not hard to find, but I did not think I would see perfect ice in desert climate.” 

Ah, so he’s one of the Scientists. Sidney sees them around town pretty often, looking skeptically at things and muttering into recording devices. “Well, if you’re new to Night Vale, you probably shouldn’t go around touching strange things or noticing things or, really, doing most things. There’s a lot out there that can hurt you.” 

The man (Sidney still doesn’t know his name. The only other Russian he’s ever known--apart from the Apache Tracker--was on Rocky & Bullwinkle that one time the movie played for an entire day on all the channels on his tv. And he doesn’t peg the guy for a Boris. Or a Natasha.) seems amused by this proclamation, rather than logically nervous. “Is exciting to me. I come from a very boring town, then to a very boring school. When I see application for internship here, I think it is so different from what I know. Is like an adventure.” 

Sidney marvels at the man, who would leave the safety and comfort of his old life to come here. Born and raised in Night Vale, you adjust in many ways to the pace of life here (which, admittedly, changes pretty often, as in the days literally get longer sometimes.) and Sidney prides himself on a certain kind of equanimity that’s seen him through some serious shit. Sidney thinks these Scientists must be a unique species of people to want to chase the danger that’s become quotidian to him. 

This prompts him to say: “Well, adventure or not, a bunch of us are meeting tomorrow evening to skate here. You should come, if you want.” 

The man smiles, wide. It’s a nice smile, makes the feeling in his chest go tight and heavy. “Great! I am come tomorrow, and I test mysterious ice that should not exist.” He pauses for a moment, doing a sweep of Sidney from top to bottom. Then he steps forward, thrusting his hand out. “I am Evgeni Malkin, soon to be Doctor Malkin. But you call me Geno.”

Sidney shakes the hand, feeling himself blush like an idiot. “Sidney. Crosby. I, uh, work down at the Radio Station. You’ll hear the show I help with tonight. Actually, Cecil, who does the show is kind of dating your boss.”

Geno’s eyes go wide at the information. “Cecil! I hear Carlos speak to him on phone earlier. He had a very nice voice. Very sexy voice.” Geno’s eyes droop a bit, and linger on Sid, mouth curving in a small smile. “Sidney has very nice voice too. You be on radio too?” 

Sidney gulps, and hopes that there are no Secret Police staff about, because public displays of nudity require a special form signed in triplicate and all Sid kind of wants to do right now is definitely not listener-friendly. But he (admirably) restrains himself and lets himself shrug and grin sheepishly. “Maybe one day. Internship training lasts about a year, and Station Management won’t let you on the air until you complete the field test. And it’s rigorous.” 

Geno looks confused at this, but lets it slide. “So what you do all day? I still am looking for projects here, maybe something for dissertation. Maybe you show me interesting things?” 

Define interesting, Sidney wants to say, but instead replies, “Well, I have to be at Grove Park later today to witness the swearing in of the new Night Vale Eagle Scouts who are becoming Blood Pact Scouts. It’s pretty rare that we have five in one class, since Eagle Scouts generally have a hard time escaping from the nest. We’re doing a segment on it tomorrow. So you could come with me, if you’d like.”

Geno seems intrigued, if confused. But oddly Sidney doesn’t want to leave him just yet, so invites the Scientist to come along as he heads to run some errands. He suddenly has an urge to show Geno the sights (and perhaps caution him on some very basic Night Vale facts), so they take off into the baking desert sun. 

First stop, of course, is the Dog Park. “Which you shouldn’t look at directly, or think about. Actually, this was a mistake, let’s go.” 

A cranky staticy sound coming from nearby hastens their departure. 

Next, they run into Michael Sandero and Sidney lets Geno gape at his second head while making small talk. Michael is one of the younger members of Sid’s hockey club, and the second pair of eyes makes him an uncanny goalie. 

As they grab invisible oranges from John Peters (you know, the farmer?) Geno spots the Whispering Forest in the distance. Even as far away as they are, Sidney can hear the faint melodic sound of voices calling his name. He doesn’t want to consider if his mother is one of them. Intern Richard is there too, Sidney supposes, and he vows to never end up like that. He’ll make it through the year even if it means training to be faster, stronger and smarter than everyone who came before him (he still marvels over the fact that Cecil, fine-boned and cheerful that he is, made it as far as he did. Then again, he did earn an Advanced Siege-Breaking Tactics badge). 

“What’s that?” Geno asked, looking a bit dazed. He’s so fresh, Sidney thinks, that of course he’d be ten times more susceptible to the Forest. He tugs on Geno’s (muscled. So muscled.) arm and says, intently, “It’s not anything you need to go near. Seriously, you will die.” Sometimes it pays to be blunt.

Geno seems to shake himself out of it, turning to Sidney with a weird look on his face. “This place is so strange, nothing here makes sense. This is normal, for you?” 

Geno’s the first Outsider he’s met. He doesn’t know how to put it into words, that normal is so relative it breaks his heart sometimes to think about the things he used to think were normal (his family hiding out in their basement on Street Cleaning Day, terrified but together; his father’s hand warm on his shoulder; his father, who now wanders around the town Wrong.) but he can picture how things look to someone who isn’t from here. A Scientist's world must be so logical, so exact. Will Geno leave, Sidney wonders?

He says, “Yes. And no. If you’re going to be living here, you can’t ever get complacent. As soon as things become normal, that’s when you know the worst is coming.” He smiles, and he knows it’s wry as fuck. “Still looking for an adventure?” 

Sidney turns around, ready to head back to the Station, already cursing himself for veering off track. A Night Vale Radio Station intern (unpaid) who gets distracted by cute Scientists with cute accents are doomed to fail. He’s startled, then, when a hand grabs his wrist. He swivels around to look at Geno, his face set in a determined frown. 

“If Sidney does it, I do it now too.” 

God, he’s only known this guy for three hours and he’s a goner. Is that what Cecil felt, when first looking at Carlos? 

Searching for a less depressing view, Sidney takes him to Old Woman Josie’s who always seems to know what to do with people. They find her knitting, a pan of cookies cooling on the stove. She greets Geno like an old friend, and directs him towards the back hallway, where a light is out, and asks in her bitty-old-woman voice (and Sid knows that’s total BS. He’s seen her angry. The town hasn’t forgotten.) if he’d be a dear and change the bulb since he’s so tall and strapping (Josie levels a look at Sid as she says it). 

Sidney nibbles on a cookie nonchalantly as one of the Erika’s decides to manifest on the paisley rug in the living room, and grins when he hears Geno shout in surprise. 

“Oh, Geno, by the way,” Sidney says as Geno marvels at the celestial being helping itself to some iced tea and picking out the raisins in its cookie, “Angels do not exist, nor have they ever existed, and they definitely don’t drop by for snacks. But this is Erika.” 

Erika nods, or does something vaguely nod-like. Geno’s hands twitch, as if itching to reach for his pad. But he restrains himself and smiles huge, babbling in Russian and then blinking like he’s forgotten that he’s supposed to be speaking in English. But surprisingly, Erika responds back in Russian, and it makes sense of course that Angels would know every language. 

Geno is grinning ear to ear when they leave Josie’s and head over to Grove Park. It doesn’t ever really get cold in Night Vale, except for in the Sand Wastes at night when all hope is lost and everything is despair. But Sidney is grateful for a cool breeze following them as they saunter down Main Street. Sidney takes the time to quiz Geno a bit on hockey, figuring that a living, breathing player is better than any blood-soaked wikipedia article. Geno leaps at the chance to discuss his apparent favorite subject (“after subatomic particles and wave theory, of course.”) and Sidney learns about icing, and dominating the blue line and the history of the KHL and how Geno dreamed of being a professional hockey player before falling in love with Science. Sidney realizes that the games they’d been playing of hitting the puck into the goal were so one-dimensional and he feels excitement, real excitement, at the thought of having Geno skate with him, teaching him and everyone in Night Vale about this fascinating sport. 

They talk so long, walking up and down the street (Sid pointing out stores to avoid, people to avoid, spiders to avoid) that when he gets a text from Cecil he realizes how much time has passed (and not in the usual, time sometimes decides to take a vacation, sense of the meaning). 

“The ceremony is starting now, let’s go.” 

They jog to the park, where a dais has been set up, along with a dozen or so chairs. When Scout Master Harlan was still alive (and Sidney’s really not sure if he’s actually dead, because who knows what happens to you when you’re dragged away by a group of creepy mute children) there was a bit more festivity to the whole thing. Instead, the new Scout Master Mahmood stands somberly by the microphone, a blood circle inked around a large bonfire and five stone-faced boys standing off to the side. The ceremony’s drawn a bit of a crowd, with some people spreading out blankets and sipping from juice boxes. 

“Well, it’s time.” Mahmood states, and the pleasant chatter dies down. “These fine boys have completed all the necessary requirements to graduate from Eagle Scout to Blood Pact Scout.” Applause. “We’re all here to witness this joyful occasion and I hope you will consider letting your own children join the Boy Scouts of America. Not that you have a choice, that is. In fact, three of you should expect a Scarlet Envelope in the mail tomorrow. Telling would be cheating.” He leans back as less enthusiastic applause follows his statement. 

Each boy steps forward to receive their new badge, and then steps towards the fire. Sidney watches a bit wistfully, remembering his own days as a Boy Scout, before he realized that the expected survival rate of a Scout was laughably low. The Scouts with new patches raise one hand above their head, the other reaching into their pocket to draw out a knife. All of them have Eagle feathers tied to the handles. Quickly and efficiently they draw the blade across their palms, and Mahmood walks by with a wooden bowl to collect samples of blood. Then, turning to the fire, he begins to chant in a language Sidney knows is so ancient, it hasn’t been heard on earth in thousands of years. The boys join in, eyes never leaving the flames. 

Mahmood tosses the bowl into the fire, and the flames spike, turning pink, and then purple. A shriek begins to sound, and then two, and then the howling of a thousand souls in agony can be heard from within the circle of fire. Sidney feels Geno clutch his shoulder, either in protection or fear, and shivers in delight. He can admit that this is probably a bit too disturbing for a first time Night Vale visitor, but he also hopes that that Geno will understand quickly how a typical day here goes and adjust accordingly. 

The boys continue to chant, their voices keeping pitch as they start break into perfect five-part harmony. It sounds a bit like Queen, to be honest. 

“Good singers.” Geno murmurs into his ear, raising goosebumps on Sid’s skin. When Sid glances back, Geno winks at him. Huh, Sid thinks. Maybe Geno isn’t as normal as he thought. 

The howling voices reach a crescendo and with a flash of light that blinds the audience, and a crackling sound like a firework going off next to his ear, the ceremony is complete. 

When sight and sound return to Sidney, he checks the dais. Four of the five boys remain standing, while the fifth lays on the ground with a nose bleed. Mahmood reaches down to check his pulse, and calls out, “This one’s fine. Just got knocked out. We’ll have to toughen him up for Weird Scout.” 

A choked sob is heard in the audience, and an older woman rushes to the boy’s side, gently cradling his head in her hands and whispering to him. Sidney has to look away. 

He helps Geno up, and the two of them stagger away. It’s dark now, and the street lights provide a luminous golden glow. Of course, the lights above the Arby’s are always present, but Sidney’s honestly forgotten about them until Geno asks. 

“I just need to drop off my notes to the station.” Sidney tells Geno, “Cecil’s almost done with the night show, so if you want I can introduce you to him.” 

Geno nods enthusiastically they head over. Sidney honestly loves the Radio Station at night, when the darkness adds a kind of intimacy and softness to the surroundings and Sid can pretend to ignore the ominous sounds coming from behind Management’s door. Sometimes, even when his day is over and he should be back at his apartment making dinner or emailing Taylor again to see if she responds, he likes to sit outside Cecil’s recording booth and listen to him talk, letting his voice waft over him like a balm. This late, anything, even Night Vale, seems easy. 

He and Geno pause in the men’s room to greet Khoshekh and Geno exclaims over the floating cat, wondering aloud about physics and anatomy and all sorts of things Sidney doesn’t have a clue about. But he doesn’t care. Seeing Geno’s genuine enthusiasm for the weirdness of Sid’s home town is intoxicating. 

Listening to Cecil speak is another intoxicant, and he and Geno grin at each other as the Radio host signs off with his signature motto. When Cecil learns who Geno is, his glee is off the charts. 

“A Scientist! Like my Carlos! Are all Scientists beautiful? Is that why you’re chosen to be Scientists?” 

Geno graciously accepts the compliment and tells Cecil how good Sidney has been today, showing him around. “He make first day in Night Vale best day.” 

Sidney, half mortified, half thrilled, just smiles dumbly. 

“Well, he is our best intern. Well, our only intern, actually, except for Dana, or Dana’s double, who is still trapped in the Dog Park. But I certainly hope he lasts!” 

It’s the best compliment Cecil can give Sidney, honestly. The hope for survival. It means all the work he’s done, all the shit he’s dodged, all the spiders he’s had to negotiate with, it’s all leading towards something good. And with Geno here, at his side, he can finally relax a bit (just a bit, cause, you know. It’s Night Vale). 

Sidney walks Geno back to the house all the Scientists are sharing, the one next to Big Rico’s. He informs Geno about the mandatory weekly slice, and tries as casually as he can to offer to meet him there tomorrow. Geno agrees eagerly, and then reaches in to pull Sidney into a hug. 

“When I first get here, I wonder if I make mistake. Carlos very clear that Science here does not always make sense. I do not expect to meet Sid, but am glad I did. You are the first thing here to make sense to me.” 

Here’s the thing: it’s been a long time, since Sidney’s been hugged. His last memory of one is from his sister, before that awful day with the Summer Reading program and her decision to join Tamika’s army. Sidney hasn’t realized how much it sucks, not being hugged, and feels so grateful to have met Geno today, on this ambivalent Tuesday. 

So he hugs back, and says, “I hope you stay.” It may be the most selfish thing he’s ever said, because every day Geno is here, bad things could happen. Sidney has witnessed that first hand. But he thinks that now he can wake up in the mornings and think of the coming day as not just something to be survived, but something to look forward to, if he can see Geno again. 

And tomorrow they get to play hockey, which is even better. As Sidney says goodbye and heads back to his apartment, the glowing lights hovering above the town don’t feel as ominous. In fact, they feel like possibility. 

Good Night, Night Vale. Good Night.


End file.
